


Synchronize

by kaibasetos (orphan_account)



Category: Kill la Kill
Genre: M/M, PWP full of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-18 22:50:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1445743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/kaibasetos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Houka just wants to touch him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Synchronize

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly this just started out as some self-indulgent smut that kind of turned into something more? I just have so many emotions about these two.

Houka knows he should be working on organizing the battle data he’s collected. He knows, and he really tries, but sometimes spreadsheets are just so tedious to focus on when Shiro is working with him. Particularly when Shiro is wearing as little clothing as he has been lately.

It isn’t as though they haven’t been in such close quarters for such long periods of time before. They’ve collaborated for ages, and they’re more than accustomed to one another’s presence by now. They work around one another in perfect synchronization and carefully calibrated movements, pointedly not touching, pointedly separate. It’s vital to the work they do, but also vaguely maddening. There’s this mutual understanding hanging over the two of them that they both acknowledge the tension hanging in the air and that neither of them are going to do a damn thing about it. That facade is easier to maintain, however, when Houka can’t _feel_ the warmth radiating off of Shiro’s body when they’re in particularly close proximity, when he isn’t wondering in the back of his mind what it would feel like to just reach out and touch him. That never seems to matter though, never even seems to be a factor. They exchange witty comments and observations, criticism and congratulations, and they act as nothing more than coworkers.

The fact remains, however, that Houka is one of the only people to have ever seen Shiro smile.

Houka doesn’t realize that he’s been staring glassy-eyed and unmoving at his computer screen until Shiro clears his throat behind him, bringing him out of his stupor. “Is something wrong?” Shiro’s voice is quiet and measured, and when Houka spins his chair around it’s to find Shiro standing over him, arms crossed over his chest and eyebrow raised. “You’ve just been sitting here for quite some time. I wanted to show you something.”

Trying valiantly to clear his mind, Houka offers an uneasy smile that he knows Shiro can’t really see -- but he’s sure Shiro knows it’s there nevertheless, because that’s just how they work. How they’ve always worked. He rises from his chair, gesturing for Shiro to lead the way. “It’s nothing. Go ahead.”

There’s that little twist of a smile at the edge of Shiro’s lips, and he turns without a word to keep Houka from seeing it, coat swishing behind him. Houka follows him down the long hallway that leads to the lab they share and he’s dimly aware that Shiro is talking to him, but he finds that, normally fascinated by what Shiro has to say, he just can’t shake that restless feeling that prickles along the edge of his skin. In the dark, enclosed space, all he can think about now is Shiro himself, those little quiet half-smiles and his quick wit, the way he dreams up things Houka himself could never dream and vice versa, the way they balance one another out. The way they exchange meaningful glances, but never touch.

“Inumuta?”

He hadn’t realized that they’ve made it into the dimly-lit lab already, and Shiro is looking at him as though he’s waiting on the answer to a question that Houka really can’t remember hearing. That familiar tension is there, always there, the tension they’re both constantly tightope-walking across, and he knows Shiro can sense it too. It’s heavy, weighty, and Houka almost can’t breathe with the feeling of it. Quite frankly he’s pretty damn tired of it.

“Inumuta,” Shiro says again, this time a bit more firm as Houka moves towards him, an unspoken warning. Houka doesn’t even register it. He grips Shiro’s lab coat with one hand and walks him backwards, pressing him up against the wall in one fluid motion.

“I’m so sick,” Houka says evenly, grabbing the mask Shiro wears and pulling it up and off to let it fall to the ground, “of not being able to touch you.”

Yanking the fabric around his mouth down and out of his way, Houka pulls Shiro in hard by the collar of his coat and kisses him hot and breathless. It’s a moment before Shiro responds in kind, but he does, his arms falling around Houka’s neck as they kiss again and again, heady and passionate, with all the longing only years of tense non-contact can provide. Houka’s hands slide up and into Shiro’s long hair, tangling there to pull him in as their mouths open and their tongues slide along one another. It’s clumsy and messy, but their bodies are pressed flush together and burning, and when Shiro makes a warm, pleased noise into the kiss Houka feels like he’s just won a war he’s been fighting for lord knows how long.

Houka’s hands detangle from Shiro’s hair to run down his chest, his ribcage, his slim hips, leaving not an inch of him untouched. It’s unlike anything he’s ever felt before, destroying scientific formula in his head and replacing it with nothing but the sensation of skin and and muscle under his fingertips. When Shiro shivers under him and moans quietly in response, Houka has to wonder when the last time he was touched like this was; Shiro is so guarded that even touching him now feels like a secret, like something that will be theirs and theirs alone. Shiro repeats his name for the third time, this time like a prayer, his fingers curling into Houka’s hair, his body arching, and the syllables hang heavy between them. Where Shiro’s hands run down his back feels like fire on his skin and when they gasp in unison, it feels just like the synchronized movements they’ve spent all of their time growing forever more accustomed to. It feels like home.

“I want to,” Houka murmurs raggedly against Shiro’s mouth, his hands tracing the patterns of numbers against Shiro’s skin, “just _touch_ you.”

“Aren’t you already?” Shiro asks, and it’s incredibly apparent in the breathy tremble of his voice that he’s trying to keep composure that he no longer has any sort of grasp on. His eyes are burning gold. “I thought that was the point.”

Houka is aware that this is where he would normally have a snarky retort to deliver as per usual, but he’s honestly not sure if he has the mental capacity for that from the way his head is buzzing static. Instead he lets actions speak for him, moving to untie where Shiro’s lab coat is covering the rest of him, all of him, and letting it fall away. He lets his fingertips trail over the length of Shiro’s cock and then presses his palm against it, just the thought that Shiro is actually this hard because of _him_ hitting him like a punch to the gut.

“Like this,” Houka explains shakily, wrapping long fingers around Shiro’s cock and stroking, rubbing his thumb over the head, and he can feel nails dig deep into his back and then drag upwards.

“Oh,” Shiro whispers, and Houka can’t tell if it’s a noise or an understanding or maybe both until he rolls his hips up into the touch and moans, “ _Oh._ ”

Stroking him steadily, Houka tries to take the time to memorize everything he possibly can: how Shiro trembles underneath him and scratches desperately at his back; how Shiro moves, arching up off the wall and into Houka’s touch; how his ribcage shudders with every breath and the _noises_ he makes, quiet and hot and needy, against Houka’s mouth. This is what he does, after all, this is his specialty: research and data, learning what works and what doesn’t. Cataloguing every sigh and shiver and touch. But then Shiro’s hands are on him too, on his shoulders, his chest, his hips, and when Houka strokes him faster the way Shiro almost whines and pulls him closer, as close as he can get, makes Houka’s mind go blissfully, incredibly blank. For once in his life, he just stops thinking about it.

“H-Houka,” Shiro stutters, and the sound of his voice tripping, the sound of Shiro saying his _name_ only makes Houka touch and kiss him harder, muffling the whining noises he makes and the heated, involuntary half-repetitions of ‘Houka’ again and again. It feels like all of the tension and electricity between them building all at once, like the culmination of everything they’ve ever been. Shiro clutches at him like he’s at sea in a storm, shaking and grabbing and bucking against him and kissing him back with so much feeling it almost hurts. Skin to skin, Houka can feel everything.

“Come on, Shiro,” Houka finally whispers into the kiss, and that’s the last straw, the catalyst. Shiro inhales sharply and stiffens up hard, his nails sinking into Houka’s shoulders, his entire body tensing for one brief, suspended moment in time before he shakes apart. He lets out a strangled cry against Houka’s mouth, arching and pressing up against him as he comes, almost incoherently sobbing out his release. The hitching of Shiro’s breath and the small sounds he makes as the aftershocks of his orgasm roll through him are the most important things Houka has ever memorized.

It takes a few long minutes for both of them to come back down, during which their breathing is the only sound in the room and Houka dimly makes note of just how badly the scratches across his spine and shoulders hurt. When Shiro finally opens his eyes the look he’s giving Houka is an odd mixture of thoughtful and calculating, like sizing up something new and confusing. Like Houka is an alien thing, a challenge he never anticipated. Mind catching up with him all at once, Houka releases him and steps back almost immediately with the sudden, intense realization of exactly what he’s done.

“I’m sorry,” he starts, and is silenced by Shiro shaking his head and reaching out to him, curling his fingers up in Houka’s hair and pulling him forward and down to kiss him languidly soft.

“Idiot,” Shiro says fondly against his mouth, and Houka can actually feel him start to smile.

 


End file.
